


First shave

by SDJ2



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: 1950s, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Cute, Facial Shaving, Fluff, Happy Birthday Artie, M/M, Male Friendship, RPF, Sexual Tension, Shaving, Teenage Dorks, Teenagers, With an undertone of sexual tension that they're not yet understanding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:42:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27079798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDJ2/pseuds/SDJ2
Summary: Can I...can I try?" Paul asked, his voice soft and unsure."Try?" Art wasn't sure he understood what Paul was asking."Your other cheek. Can I do it?"The story of the first time 16-year old Art shaves and Paul witnesses the event.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 11
Kudos: 8





	First shave

**Author's Note:**

> In my other fic ([In the jingle-jangle morning I come following you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25409533)) I mentioned in passing that Paul was present at Art's first shave. This fic could be fitted into that narrative.
> 
> Sorry, I couldn't immediately come up with a better title.

Contrary to what he had expected, Art’s mustache and the beginning of a beard, some uneven patches of blond fuzzy hair on his cheeks, appeared first. Paul’s dark hair rendered it much more plausible that his facial hair would be rather noticeable from the start and he would have to shave first, but oddly enough that wasn’t the case. It was not like Paul didn’t show any beginnings of a mustache, because he did. The dark shadow of the hair growing above Paul’s upper lip was becoming visible, but it was Art who woke up one Saturday morning with too much unexpected hair on his cheeks, as if it had just materialized out of the blue overnight. 

When Paul came by that afternoon, he kind of did a double take and stared. “Oh my god, what happened?” he asked Art, and Art was getting increasingly anxious about how his face looked, following that comment. Paul inched closer and examined Art’s face, trying to discern exactly where the thin and light hairs appeared here and there on Art’s cheeks and upper lip, with a few red patches in between. It was unclear whether the added color was from the touching or scratching that Art had inevitably done or from Art being embarrassed under Paul’s scrutiny.

“Can you move your head a bit?” Paul asked, and Art tried to joke at first to divert some of the weird attention away from his features. “What is it, do I have something on my face?” he grinned. But when Paul didn’t say anything and moved his face even closer out of curiosity, it all became a bit too much for Art. He gently but abruptly pushed Paul back and said “that’s it, I’m going to shave it off right now.”

Art had never shaven any hair on his body before, but he had seen his father do it. The shaving cream and the blades were in the cupboard just under the sink, and when Art walked to the bathroom, Paul trailed after him.

“Your first shave,” Paul stated from the doorway, as Art started to rummage through the items on the cupboard shelf. It was said with a mix of awe, pride, and a little envy too. Art silently smiled to himself. Paul, as with everything else to do with the two of them, probably wanted to be the first to have to shave as well. Paul’s announcement started to feel to Art as if this was a proper rite of passage he was going to go through, as if after today he’d join the ranks of the real men in the world. No longer just a boy, but an actual adult male. Art frowned. Despite being taller than his friend, his lanky form and gangly limbs somehow didn’t make him look like a fully-grown human either.

Paul tracked Art’s movements with his gaze, and when Art had located everything that he thought he needed: the razor, the box with blades and the shaving cream, Paul kept still in the doorway of the bathroom, looking expectantly at his friend. Art was a little astounded.

“What, are you planning on watching?” Art asked, not entirely sure if he _wanted_ his best friend to witness him fumbling with the razor in the first place.

“Can I?” Paul asked uncertainly. “I mean, if you’d rather be alone—”

Art took a second longer to reply than probably was necessary. He had a shiver running down his back that he couldn’t quite understand or place. This was Paul, his best friend, whom he had shared nearly everything else with in the four and a half years they had known each other. Art couldn’t tell why the prospect of Paul watching him shave made him squirm a little. It couldn’t be because Paul was going to be looking at him closely again. He and Paul had been sitting within inches of each other before, when they were trying to copy each other’s diction. There had been neither need nor time for embarrassment then. But now, shaving felt oddly intimate, almost too personal to be shared. Still, Art had never been able to say no to Paul and probably wouldn't be able to, even if his life depended on it.

“No, it’s fine, you can stay,” he told Paul, turning the tap to let warm water fill the sink. “I just…I’ve never done this before, so don’t laugh, okay?” he asked Paul, feeling a bit exposed, as if he somehow was in a far-reaching state of undress.

Paul’s eyebrows shot up a little. “Why would I laugh?” he said. “I just want to see how you do it before I have to do it myself.”

Paul pushed himself up from leaning against the doorpost by the shoulder, and came to stand next to Art in front of the sink. He looked at Art through the mirror, and the both of them locked eyes that way, instead of turning their heads and looking at each other directly. Art was the first to break eye contact, and busied himself with opening the box containing the blades before giving attention to the razor next to it.

The razor was a safety razor that opened by manipulating the end of the silver handle. Art turned the little knob until the razor opened like a butterfly spreading its wings, and he carefully took out a blade from the box. It was wrapped in a thin layer of paper, and his hands trembled a bit when he peeled it off, trying not to cut his fingers even before he had put the blade to his face. Paul, in the meantime, kept uncharacteristically quiet next to him and took everything in, his eyes fixed on the sharp, paper thin metal object in Art’s hands.

Art let out a tiny relieved sigh when he fit the blade inside the razor and closed it again by turning the end of the handle in the opposite direction, then took a deep breath again and unscrewed the cap on the tube of shaving cream. He pushed out a bit of blueish transparent lotion and started applying it on his face. Soon a thin white layer of foam was coating his cheeks, chin and upper lip. 

"Do you think it needs a bit more cream?" Paul asked, looking in the mirror at Art, picking up the box of the cream, trying to see if there were any instructions to be found. Art shrugged but squeezed a second dot of cream on his hands anyway and lathered it on top of the previous layer of foam. It felt cool on his cheeks and almost stung his eyes a bit where it came up to the very top part of his cheeks. 

Art took the blade and rubbed his thumb across it carefully. It seemed sharp enough and he was very wary of cutting himself, so he couldn't help his hand from shaking a little as he put the blade in a bit of an angle against his skin and scraped off the first strip of shaving cream, once again locking eyes with Paul in the process. 

Paul's eyes were wide open, his jaw slack and the tip of his tongue was visible between his lips in utter concentration on Art's actions. When Art scratched the blade against his cheek a second time, Paul's eyes tracked the movement with meticulous attention. 

Because the blade was new and thus anything but blunt, and because the first hairs were soft and scattered on his skin, Art found that he didn't have to apply too much pressure with the metal, skin-warmed object on the soft flesh of his cheeks. He relaxed visibly, splashed the razor in the water in the sink and proceeded to shave his cheek with longer, more careless strokes.

Paul watched it all with absolute interest, and when Art made half a turn with his body, intent on starting on his right cheek, Paul's hand shot out and latched onto Art's wrist, stilling it effectively, the blade still firmly trapped between Art's fingers. 

"Can I...can I try?" Paul asked, his voice soft and unsure.

"Try?" Art wasn't sure he understood what Paul was asking. 

"Your other cheek. Can I do it?" Paul looked at Art with a strange mix of excitement and trepidation, and it did nothing to calm Art's nerves.

"You...you want to shave _me_?" Art asked, just to make sure he had understood it right. 

"Yeah," Paul said, even more softly than before, his voice a low rumble that echoed as a hollow sound between the bathroom tiles. Art stared at him. He couldn't tell why Paul's request felt even more like invading some sort of personal space. It was one thing to have someone look at him shaving for the first time, but another thing _to be shaven_ by someone else. Art couldn't quite tell the cause of the sharp flash of semi-nervous energy coursing through his belly, but he concluded Paul’s suggestion wasn't an entirely unpleasant thought either.

"Just to see what it feels like, I guess," Paul said a little louder, releasing his grip on Art's wrist. "But if you'd rather I didn't, that's—” 

"Okay," Art interrupted before he changed his mind.

"Yeah?" Paul smiled.

Art nodded and handed the razor to Paul. When Paul’s fingers brushed against his, Art felt another small shiver running down his back. 

"Wait," Paul said, putting the blade down on the sink. "You better sit down for this, I guess."

"There's a foldable chair in Jerry's room," Art said, and Paul turned to leave the bathroom only to return seconds later carrying the chair in question under his arm. 

Art sat down and grabbed a towel that he draped over his chest. He could only see the top of his head in the mirror now, which was of no use at all. Paul, left-handed just like him, moved to stand on Art's other side, to gain better access to Art's face for the task at hand. Paul swirled the razor back in the water and then brought it up to Art's face. 

"Trust me," he told Art, his brown eyes searching Art’s blue ones.

"I do," Art said without thinking. But it was the truth. He'd probably trust Paul with his life right now. 

Paul put his fingers in Art's hair and touched them to Art's scalp, putting pressure on Art’s head to turn Art's face a bit, the way that gave him the best angle to lower the blade. The first scrape of the blade against Art's skin was too soft, probably because of Paul's inexperience and because Paul might also be a little afraid to hurt Art, so he was extra careful. 

Still, it was a good thing that Art was wearing a long-sleeved sweater, because goosebumps were erupting all over his forearms, the hairs that were rising on his arms prickling pleasantly cool under his clothes when Art felt his body warm up instead. As close as his friendship was with Paul, this was most definitely the most intimate thing they had ever done, and when his lower belly was spiking again with waves of _something_ \- Art couldn't tell what it was, it was less nervous than before, at least - he wondered momentarily if this wasn't like crossing a certain line. 

"You can press a little harder," Art directed Paul, who had also noticed that his first stroke had been too soft, judging from the shaving cream still left on Art's skin. Paul set the blade down again and added a bit more pressure, simultaneously making the sound of the blade rasping over Art's skin a little louder. 

"Yeah, that's it," Art said, while letting out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. 

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" Paul asked, while moving the blade from the water to the next strip on Art's cheek, close to his ear, moving Art's head a fraction more to the side with his other hand still caught in Art's hair. 

"No, it doesn't hurt at all," Art said. Art's heart was racing, but whatever Paul was doing wasn't causing Art any pain. Not physically, at least.

"Good," Paul said, satisfied by Art's answer. He continued to work silently and Art also didn't feel the need to comment further. Taking advantage of Paul's eyes on the blade and where the metal touched Art's skin, Art found it very difficult to tear his gaze away from Paul whose face was hovering about a feet in front of him, slightly to the right. Art studied the curve of Paul's eyebrows, his upper lashes and the dark eyes underneath, then continued taking in Paul's nose, the space above his upper lip where indeed some dark hairs were starting to grow. Finally his eyes landed on Paul's lips, especially his lower lip that glistened a bit as Paul had wetted it unconsciously, too focussed on what he was doing to notice this habit. 

Before Art could start to deliberately contemplate why this all felt like someone was reaching a hand in his belly and stirring things around in there, he allowed himself to let his eyes slip shut and just enjoy the moment. The sound of the blade sliding through the shaving cream and the splashing of water was, in fact, entirely soothing. 

"I'm going to do your mustache now," Paul's voice came from somewhere above him. Art just hummed noncommittally. "Pull the skin above your lip a little taut for me?"

Art sucked in his lower and upper lip, doing exactly like Paul asked, but Paul still let his hand slide from Art's hair to Art's chin to have better control over his other hand’s motions. Without opening his eyes, Art felt a new wave of goosebumps wash over him as Paul scraped the blade above his lip in short yet firm sweeps, while the top of Paul’s thumb was lodged in the dimple of Art’s chin, just below his lower lip.

It was only when he felt Paul's fingers tighten on his skin and heard Paul inhale sharply, that Art opened his eyes to find Paul staring at him with large, wide eyes. 

"Shit, I cut you," Paul said apologetically, and let go of Art, throwing the blade in the water at the same time. Paul stepped back to reach for the roll of toilet paper, of which he tore a few sheets only to press them to the place where he had apparently nicked Art. 

"Sorry," he said, frowning, but Art waved the apology away with his hand. "It doesn't hurt. I didn't even know I had a cut until you told me," Art said, trying to relieve Paul's anxious look.

Paul raised the paper to look at the damage, and apparently some of it had stuck to Art's upper lip, because Paul reached out his hand and ever so gently peeled it off, one of his fingernails touching Art's skin. Paul's face approached Art's and for one excruciatingly long second, it looked to Art as if Paul was going to plant his mouth on the cut to kiss it better. While Art reasoned that was definitely crossing all kinds of lines, his mind was frantically trying to decide whether he would pull back if it came to that, or whether he would let it happen. But Paul made the decision for him, moving away. There was not enough time for Art to make up his mind on whether he was relieved or disappointed.

"It won't stop bleeding," Paul said. He tore off a little corner of the toilet paper and handed it to Art. "Here, press this to the cut while I finish the shave. It won't take long." 

Paul realised fairly quickly that Art couldn't see or feel where the cut was, so he took back the paper and pressed it to the wound himself, grabbing Art's finger and putting it on top of the temporary band-aid. Then he finished the shave quickly, only three or four swipes left. 

When he was done Paul stepped back, judging his handiwork from a distance. He took the towel from Art's chest and ran it under some fresh warm water from the tap, before he put it back to Art's face. 

"You can let go," he instructed Art, who dropped the finger that had been pressed to the cut. 

Paul patted the wet towel to Art's face gently, swiping the last remnants of shaving cream off with it. The gesture was so sweet and caring that Art's eyes started watering a bit. 

"There, all done," Paul announced, eyes gleaming, and proudly stepped back to let Art get up from the chair. "Now you're looking like a baby again," Paul continued, smiling. 

Art looked at his face in the mirror and it was indeed smooth again. He started to giggle when he spotted the toilet paper that was once more glued to his upper lip. “Owww,” Art said then, as his skin stretching when he laughed pulled the cut open. Paul kept smiling at Art, shooting him a silent apology.

“Wait,” Paul suddenly said. “One last thing. Does your dad have aftershave lotion?”

“Good question,” Art answered, and pulled the shelf open, his gaze landing on a bottle of tonic that was indeed intended to soothe the skin after a shave. “Yes!” he called out. Paul beckoned him to give him the bottle, which Art did. Paul read the label of the bottle, popped the cap open and poured some of the liquid in his hand. He set the bottle down, rubbed his hands together, and looked back up at Art.

“Come here,” Paul said, and Art found his feet moving of their own accord, going to stand in front of Paul, who reached up and patted both of Art’s cheeks with his hands coated in lotion. Despite the cool liquid, Paul’s hands were warm when they were touching him, and Art was once again left to wonder how the simple act of shaving felt like such a complicated, personal and captivating affair when shared with his friend. Art figured he wouldn’t be surprised if the goosebumps on his arms were never subsiding after this.

“There,” Paul said pleasantly, letting his hands drop to his sides, “now your first shave is really complete.” He washed the remnants of the lotion off his hands. And then he turned on his heels, and before Art knew what was happening, Paul stood on his tiptoes and put his wet hands on Art’s shoulders, leaning in. Paul pulled back just as quickly, and Art blinked a few times, no clue at all what just transpired.

“You smell…minty,” Paul stated matter-of-factly, and Art couldn’t do anything but stare at his friend in bewilderment.

Then Paul started collecting all the shaving material and put it back on the shelf; he hung the wet towel on the rack to dry and he folded the chair and carried it back to Jerry’s room. Paul was back in Art’s room, flinging himself on the bed before Art even had the presence of mind to move and leave the bathroom.

“You can do me as well, when I shave,” Paul said when Art also entered his own bedroom and closed the door behind him.

Art’s mind was reeling; apparently shaving each other was now a thing they did, which was rather…unexpected. Paul seemed to pick up on some of the doubt in Art’s mind, because he added “if you want to, I mean—”, with a little frown.

Art finally gathered his wits again. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll try not to slice open your throat,” he went on to say with a cheeky smile.

“Heyyyy,” Paul pouted. “It was an accident.”

That may very well have been the case, but Art was already looking forward to getting his revenge. “Perhaps we should look into waxing your legs, or something,” he mused.

The blow of the pillow hitting Art’s face made the little cut on his lip start bleeding again, but Art was too busy noticing how crinkles appeared next to Paul’s eyes to care.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Arthur!  
> (and happy birthday to me :D)
> 
> Say hi to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Froyo_ravioli/) or [Tumblr](https://froyo-ravioli.tumblr.com/).


End file.
